


A Story That Is Almost, But Not Quite, Entirely Unlike Blue Carbuncle

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Story: The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-07-12 17:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19949983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: It’s the most wonderful time of the year, and the Holmes Family is all set to have one of those unimaginable Christmas dinners— but the game is afoot, as Mummy’s friend is caught up in a Christmas mystery.





	1. Not a Hat, and a Very Different Carbuncle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/gifts).



“John! You’re late! Quickly then, take off all your clothes and join me on the sofa.”

I glared at Sherlock, who somehow managed to convey urgency while still lounging in a purple dressing-gown, a pile of crumpled morning papers on the floor beside his dangling left hand. He looked exactly the same as when I had left him this morning to head to work. The thing of it is, if he had just off-handedly suggested it I probably would have done it, but he was trying his best to use what I like to think of as his ‘casually commanding’ voice, so it was obvious something was up. I now know a rushed Sherlock requires a much slower than usual John if we don’t want to have things explode all around us. Often quite literally.

I strolled across the room and headed to the chair he had pulled up alongside the sofa, but he hollered at me not to sit. I jumped up in a panic, and twisted my knee in the bargain. “What the hell?!” I spun round to examine the chair— to see what fate I had narrowly escaped. Shattered test tubes? Vials of acid? Poisoned darts?

Lying across the seat, in pristine dark leather which had blended in perfectly with Sherlock’s chair, was a pair of gloves.

The position of the chair, as well as Sherlock’s completely and utterly pissed off expression, suggested that he had been glowering at them for a very long time. He sighed and jerked his thumb in their direction. Then he made The Face.

“You _do_ know who they belong to, don’t you?”

“Of course I don’t! Just… give me a moment to warm up, would you?” I sat in my own chair this time and rubbed my hands together before the crackling fire. Mrs Hudson must have tended to it, as Sherlock hadn't moved an inch all day. A sharp frost had set in, and the windows were covered in ice. I had only walked a half a block from the Tube and I felt damn near frozen.

As elegant as they looked, the gloves must have had some deadly story behind them. Someone was strangled with them, maybe? I looked at them again.

“Go on, pick them up,” he said.

They looked very much like something Sherlock himself would buy, had he been in the market for women’s gloves. The only person I could think of that I not only could have named but who would have owned something like that was Irene Adler. True enough, she probably would have strangled someone with them and left them right where Sherlock would happen to find them…

“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock, frowning. “Many things are horrible without being criminal. That I should find it so soon after Christmas is...instructive. Also, the initials MH are legible inside the wrist.”

The print was small and neat, written in black ink on the label. I turned them over. “And not ‘HW’?” I thought I was being clever, but Sherlock only sneered.

“The difference between an ‘M’ and a ‘W’ is quite distinctive.”

They didn’t seem like the type of gloves Molly Hooper would wear, but it was possible. And Mrs Hudson would never spend that much money on gloves. It was clearly someone Sherlock had no desire to see, but even if Mycroft Holmes had a need for women’s gloves, for some reason, these particular ones would be entirely too small for him. That was a hellofalot of ‘MH’s. Felt like I knew hundreds of ‘em. And yet, I still had no answer.

“She left them here last time, to ensure a return visit. Like some warped version of...what’s her name?”

“What’s whose—”

Sherlock got up in one fluid motion, and started pacing anxiously. “The… the one... The one with the shoe...that she leaves...so the prince can…. What was her name!?!”

“Cinderella?” Sherlock was calmer upon hearing the answer, but only just.

“Yes. Cinderella! Like some deranged Cinderella looking for an excuse to go back to the Ball!”

“Cinderella lost her shoe as she was running to be at the carriage before it turned into a pumpkin. She didn’t leave it there on purpose!”

Sherlock gave me a look which effectively conveyed that he thought I was the most naive person in the universe, and I have to admit it made me rethink all of Cinderella. I still had no idea whose gloves they were, though.

“She arrived home this morning and asked me if I’d perhaps seen them. Said something about finally finding Daddy’s glasses again and now losing her gloves. I was tempted to say I hadn't seen them. Very tempted. But she’d know, and that would be...not good, yes?”

Oh. “Yeah. And she’d just find another reason anyway.”

“I had counted on a reprieve this year, as they were still on another one of their “cultural exchange” trips, as Mummy likes to call them, over the holiday. The two of them manage to have friends on every continent... including Antarctica at present, as Mummy’s connections are never-ending. But she returned today, insistent on wishing us the compliments of the season before it was too close to my birthday, and then the visit would change character.”

Yes, a belated holiday celebration with Mummy and Daddy Holmes two days post-Christmas. Probably Mycroft, too. “Well, I guess that explains the sudden romantic urge.”

Sherlock pouted. “I was hoping if they caught us being indecorous they would assume they were interrupting something and leave.”

“Crude. But...probably effective.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, John.”

“Too bad you and I can’t switch places. I’d get the lovely turkey dinner with all the trimmings, the Christmas cake...hell, I’d even take pantomines...and you could go have fun at the clinic lancing boils.”

“Mummy despises turkey. We generally opt for a goose. But remember...it’s not just a Christmas dinner. It’s a family Christmas dinner. Which means it is infinitely more unpleasant than you are conjuring up, and of course means that you are expected to be there as well. I knew with us being engaged it was a matter of time till she decided to welcome you to the Holmes Christmas dinner tradition. Far more distressing than a day at the clinic, in any case.”

“Have you ever seen a carbuncle, Sherlock? Mycroft versus a carbuncle. I know which wins.”

“So do I.”

If everyone was more or less sober, it would beat any family gathering the Watsons ever had hands down. There was fun to be had. I kind of enjoy the traditional trappings of Christmas. Still gave the Queen’s speech a listen, liked the ugly jumpers, even liked the horrible jokes in the crackers. There was something comforting in traditions. And, something even more comforting in the ease with which they were welcoming me into the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might want to look up the other meaning of carbuncle besides a cut of gemstone. Or, maybe not. They are really gross.  
> Artwork is a joint effort of me and Sidney Paget. I reworked his art, much like I reworked this story ;)


	2. A Blue Gem Inside a Goose

I convinced Sherlock that actually getting dressed was in his best interest if he wanted to avoid any long and pointless conversations, and then pulled up another chair for Mycroft.

Mummy and Daddy arrived first, carrying some coolers which I assumed contained ingredients for tonight’s dinner. Sherlock immediately steered the conversation toward speculation on what Mycroft was up to and why he was so late, and when that topic was exhausted, he turned it to his parents’ recent visit to Santa Fe. It seems Mummy had a newfound love of the black-on-black pottery of the San Ildefonso Tribe.

“The Tewa name for the San Ildefonso Pueblo is Po-Woh-Geh-Owingeh. It means ‘Where the Water Cuts Through’. I regret not having travelled to the American Southwest earlier in my life. I’m fairly certain I would have purchased at least one of Maria Martinez’s pots, had I seen them for myself. Now I can only gaze at them from behind glass.”

“You always did have a wonderful eye for art,” said Daddy.

I tried to join in the conversation. “I studied Chinese pottery once. For a case. Not that Sherlock gave me much time to do it, but I think I really developed a good...sense...of what to look for in quality art. And learned a bit about spotting forgery.”

“Oh, was it a forgery case, then?” asked Daddy.

“Um, no. No, I was… meant to be a bit of a distraction, I guess. Bad guy was a collector.” The more I began to describe the case, the more I regretted having brought it up at all. It hadn’t ended very well. For me, anyway. “I have a friend who happens to be sublibrarian at the London Library in St. James’s Square and he helped me study. And this one,” I gestured toward Sherlock, who was already smiling, knowing I was about to discuss my complete failure at cramming on pottery, “gave me some real egg-shell pottery from the Ming dynasty. I have no idea where he got it from…” I was hoping Sherlock would take the opportunity to explain, or perhaps Mummy would jump in and question him about it, but Sherlock only kept smiling and everyone else remained annoyingly silent. “My job was to offer to sell it. It was meant to keep him occupied while Sherlock—” _stole his journal_ “—collected some evidence from a crime scene.”

Mummy beamed. “And you were able to fool an expert!”

“Well, not for very long.”

“Long enough!” said Daddy.

Sherlock finally deigned to speak. “That would be Mycroft on the stair.” 

I didn’t hear anything, but was glad to cross the room all the same. I opened the door and got a burst of cold air from the hallway right in my face.

“Good afternoon. Mycroft.”

He nodded. “John.” He hesitated. “Apologies for my tardiness. Unavoidable circumstance.” He looked like a mix of near frozen and overheated; probably walked quite a ways to get here. I wondered why he hadn’t taken a car and waited to see if he was going to say anything else, but he just leaned his umbrella against the wall, let out a tiny sigh of exasperation, and handed over his scarf and coat as I gestured toward the wooden chair. He looked at it dubiously before taking a seat. When I rejoined them, Mummy was already on a new topic.

“Well, you see, her newest paintings have sold rather well, it seems, and she decided to splurge on one of those special chefs who come in and make you low-calorie food. After a few months of that, she figured she’d have lost those stubborn extra pounds. You know how it is.” She glanced at Sherlock briefly before continuing. “Well, maybe you don’t.” Mycroft shifted in his chair. “In any case, she insisted that Henrietta, that's her name, make a traditional dinner anyway. Diet or no diet.

“I told her she was right to do that. You can’t compromise on holidays, or you’ll feel deprived; if you feel deprived, diets backfire. Better off eating what you want in reasonable amounts. Her chef being French, she decided along with a turkey and Brussel’s sprouts and all the traditional fare that they should also have a King Cake. For Epiphany. Which is, as you well know, January the 6th. Normally, that sort of thing wouldn’t be made all that far in advance, but Henrietta was going to visit her family right after Christmas, so they decided she should make it a bit earlier than usual.”

I found Mummy charming in a way that probably only worked if you didn't hear her stories on a regular basis. Daddy fidgeted with his ear and Mycroft smirked. Turning the hearing aid down then. Mummy glanced over at him and kept right on talking. Clearly she knew, and it didn't bother her in the least. Sherlock was just as openly rude as his father and looked like he was about to fall out of the chair, his eyes glazing over, and I felt badly for her. I tried to give her even more of my attention.

“She said that Christmas dinner was lovely, and afterward they took Henrietta to Heathrow. That cake made it two whole days before they finally decided to sneak a piece last night. From the outer edges, just kind of...decreasing the diameter... so as not to spoil the thing, you know. It wasn’t just Rebecca’s idea, it was Christopher’s too. And it was Christopher who nearly choked on the prize! They had expected it to be somewhere in the center!”

“The plastic baby, you mean,” corrected Mycroft. “Hardly what one could call a prize.”

“I guess they do it differently in France, because it was a ring.”

“Unusual variation!” said Mycroft.

Sherlock perked right up. “And Mycroft knows his cakes.”

Mummy ignored the insult smoothly, as only one who had somehow managed to raise two boys to adulthood could do.

“I agree it doesn’t seem like it was meant to go in the cake,” I said. “Maybe it slipped off Henrietta’s finger or something.”

“A professional chef?” Sherlock fired back. “The only jewellery a baker would wear would be a plain wedding band— and even that would be frowned upon when working with pastry. Describe the ring.” Sherlock tented his fingers under his chin.

“Very tacky. Cheap costume jewelry. A very large chunk of blue glass in a sterling setting. Rebecca says she’ll give it to her niece when she comes to visit for the New Year.”

Sherlock pulled out his mobile. Mummy glared. No electronics during holiday celebrations was a new family rule, ever since Mycroft had decided to complain about getting potatoes on his laptop. He just typed faster. “Sometimes they put things besides the baby in the cake. To symbolise the gifts the wise men brought,” he said.

“But that isn't even the weirdest part.”

Sherlock put his mobile away and turned his attention toward Mummy. The abrupt shift was so disconcerting that she stopped for a moment and looked around at all of us before continuing on.

“Just before we came over, she rang me up again. Apparently, a woman who said she was from such-and-such bakery had called yesterday to confirm that we had ordered a Christmas cake from them. Well, Christopher didn’t recognize the name of the place, and he knew Henrietta had made hers from scratch—she always did that with puddings—so he said no and hung up.”

Mycroft was listening too, now. “I bet she called back this morning,” he said.

“Exactly! And this time she said something about an apprentice working with Henrietta who didn't know what a King Cake was and that he didn’t know to put the baby inside it, so they would be sending out a new one this afternoon as a replacement. Rebecca said it wasn’t necessary, but the caller insisted. Said they would send out a replacement cake and a gift card worth £50, good any time they wished. Then Rebecca explained that there were indeed trinkets inside the cake, so they were fine.”

“And I bet she—”

“Shhhhh…” interrupted Sherlock. “I want to hear exactly what she said, without your undue influence.”

“A case? At Christmastime? Or are you just looking for a good excuse to get out of... Movie Time?”

“Why Myc, I love Movie Time! Don’t you?” Mycroft looked murderous. “What are we watching, Daddy?” Sherlock remembered his hearing aid was turned down and asked again, tapping on the table in front of him. 

“Oh, well I thought I’d shake it up a bit this year and do something that isn’t a Christmas film. I haven’t decided between Captain Marvel and that new Spiderman one. Which do you recommend, John?”

“You don’t have to choose something I would like.”

“Nonsense! I read my share of comic books in my day, and I’m curious to see what they do with them.”

“Well. I have already seen them both, but for a rewatch, I guess I would prefer Captain Marvel?”

“Captain Marvel it is, then,” said Mummy. “And this is family time, Sherlock. If you are so keen to talk to Rebecca, we can visit with her… as a family... tomorrow.”

Sherlock froze and gave a few blinks. My God he was actually considering it. 

“A few quick questions. Did she tell the woman on the phone she had found a ring?”

“I think she just said ‘trinkets’.”

“And did she still offer to replace the cake?”

“She said she still wished to provide them with another, but needed to see if she could get permission to do so, and would contact them tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent.”

“What do you mean, ‘Excellent’?”

“Does Henrietta bake for several families?”

“Yes. She runs a sort of, catering company. And makes many treats for the holidays.”

“Then the phone woman will be checking on other cakes soon. That buys us some time. Very well, then. Tomorrow it is.”

Mycroft’s jaw dropped. “You’re serious? We should all go visit Mummy’s friend tomorrow morning?”

“The ring might not be as fake as it seems. And someone is rather desperate to get it back. But they have to contact all the other patrons first, otherwise I’d be suggesting we go tonight. Along with a security detail from the Yard.”

“No need for that,” I said. “We can manage it. Sherlock and I can stand watch after the visit.”

Mummy rose from the sofa.“Sounds like that’s settled, then. And now, I would like a proper meal.” She tapped on her cooler. “Sherlock, will I regret stepping into that kitchen?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Well I suppose I will see what I can do. Mykie, come help me out.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have the proper equipment to make that kitchen serviceable. Hazmat equipment comes to mind.”

“Very funny. Come on. And don’t think you can just wander off, Sherlock. We may be better at cleaning, but it is still your kitchen. Give John a rest. Call it a Christmas gift.”

Mycroft had suggested once more they head to his home instead, but Mummy seemed quite determined. 

We turned on the movie and only occasionally heard a, “But that was important!” or a “Thousands of guilty men will go free if you disturb those samples!” and after a while it got quiet. Perhaps a bit too quiet.

Sherlock came in, clearly not wishing to discuss the events of the past hour. 

“What is it called again?” he asked, in full pout-mode.

“‘Captain Marvel’” I replied. “Oooh, you’re just in time for the bit with Goose! Watch this part!”

“So I take it this is no ordinary cat.”

“How did you know? Maybe it is,” said Daddy, between chuckles.

“Chekhov's Gun. If you are bringing a cat onto a spaceship, there must be a reason for it.”

“Chekov’s gun, eh?” said Daddy. “You know, sometimes people do odd things just to trick you. Deliberately ignore Chekhov's gun, and so forth. Maybe they just wanted to bring their cat to outerspace? There are... other cats in space, I’m sure.”

I joined in on the fun. “Maybe she couldn’t find a cat sitter?”

“Right,” said Sherlock, hitting the final consonant a bit hard. “The cat is named Goose, then?” He appeared to have surrendered and joined Daddy and me on the sofa.

“Yup.”

We watched for a bit more.

“Are you still trying to claim that this is an ordinary cat?” he finally said.

“Ummm. I never said that. But just watch this part.”

“What's the blue gem?”

“It’s a Tesseract.”

Sherlock looked as if he might have heard the term before. I watched as he blinked a few times, searching for connections.

“Yeah, it's a portal to other dimensions. And it isn’t really a gem, even if it looks all sparkly and glowy. Everyone wants it, it’s valuable, but… Well, actually there is a gem inside of it, come to think of it. But that's not the point. Or maybe it is, but we don’t know that yet. Anyway, just watch the cat, would you?”

It occured to me that Daddy was no longer watching the movie, and was finding it much more entertaining to watch me communicating with his younger son.

“The cat that isn't a cat.”

“Yes. I suppose it's no big giveaway to say that you’re right, the cat is an alien.”

“That shapeshifted into the form of a cat?”

“No, they... Flerken just happen to look like cats.”

Sherlock resigned himself to watching just as Goose sprouted tentacles from her mouth and swallowed the Tesseract. He seemed fairly unimpressed, but I figured anything would beat preparing food in the kitchen. Or rather, cleaning the kitchen in advance of preparing food. 

Mummy popped back into the room, “Well, all right. As we are going to be at my home in any case early tomorrow morning, I think it best we cook there.”

Daddy looked up from the film. “That bad?”

Mummy refused to answer. She simply rang for a five person taxi.

“I’m sorry, Mummy. The kitchen is sort of a makeshift laboratory. We...get takeout...a lot.” It was taking some getting used to, her insistence that I call her Mummy. Mine being long gone, and never much inspiring that sort of term of endearment anyway, I suppose it came easy enough. But the word seemed to carry with it its own weight of guilt; it just wouldn’t feel the same if I were only apologising to ‘Mrs Holmes’.

Sherlock, realising all his experiments had been destroyed for nothing, fell silent, and refused to say another word until we arrived at their home. Mycroft attempted to chat with Mummy about the food preparation, and Daddy had the cabbie grab a local paper and buried himself in it. 

I simply watched it all and wondered if any blog readers would even believe what a Holmes family Christmas was actually like.


	3. Occam’s Razor vs Chekov’s Gun

When we finally got to the cottage, which must have been a small fortune in cab fare, Mummy rushed into the kitchen like it was a long lost lover. She shooed away anyone who came near as she unpacked the food onto the countertop.

Mycroft turned toward his father. “Daddy, have you an old copy of the _Times_. Say, from five days ago?”

“If it hasn’t been used as starter for the fireplace.”

Mycroft shot a glance toward the woodbin without leaving his seat. 

“Fine,” snapped Sherlock. “Don’t want to dirty your hands with newsprint. I’ll look, then.” He rifled through the bin, tossing old papers everywhere. I tried my best to keep pace with him to pick them up. “Here!” He pulled one out, triumphant, and thrust it behind his back toward Mycroft, who took it gingerly and turned to the classifieds.

“Reward: missing sapphire ring. Stolen from the Countess of Morcar during her London visit at the Hotel Cosmopolitan.” Mycroft folded the paper and placed it on the table. “£10,000 for the recovery of said item. Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“We need to find out where the bakery Henrietta used is located. If she isn’t responsible for taking the gem and hiding it in the cake, then it is most likely someone who assists her who did the actual...“

“Cake filling?” I offered.

“It is most likely she,” said Mycroft. “Occam’s Razor.”

Daddy smiled again. “Occam’s razor. Is that more deadly than Chekov’s gun?” At least he found the whole visit entertaining.

“Nonsense!” Mummy called out from the kitchen. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Rebecca is an excellent judge of character. She would never employ a jewel thief. Now come over here and scrub some potatoes.”

“I am inclined to believe you are right,” said Sherlock. I wasn’t sure if he truly believed her or if he was just unable to turn down another chance to go against Mycroft. 

Dinner was wonderful. I even liked the food I thought I couldn’t possibly enjoy...like parsnip mashed potatoes. I found myself looking over at Sherlock’s plate out of habit. He had taken a small helping of each item and had dutifully sampled them all. The tiny portions together were nearly a serving. Must be why Mummy had made so many different things. I made a note of it. My job to feed him up, right?

Sherlock gave an artful yawn, looked at me, and said, “Bed?”

There wasn’t a soul at that table who didn’t catch the not-so-hidden meaning. I flushed in spite of myself. They noticed, I know they did, but no one seemed to care. Mummy even played along. “You’ll want some rest because we are seeing Rebecca in the morning, right after breakfast. I doubt you’ve been up that early in years.”

“Unless you were staying up that late,” I added. It sounded wrong the second it came out of my mouth. “Goodnight, everyone.”

“How far is her home from here?” asked Sherlock, as he pushed in his chair.

“Ten minutes, at most,” she replied. “Daddy’s making waffles!”

We excused ourselves.

Sherlock sat on the queen bed that Mummy had replaced the old twin mattress with. What had once been Sherlock’s bedroom had been transformed into a serviceable guest room, but a peek in the closet revealed Sherlock’s original room furnishings. His old room must have been just as sparse as the one in Baker Street had been, because it only had one box marked ‘Sherlock’s Books’ and another marked ‘Games, CDs, Trophies’ along with a half-size violin case. A decent quality microscope was gathering dust in the corner. I wanted to open up the boxes and see what kind of trophies were inside. To at least see what kind of music a young Sherlock Holmes listened to. I had never thought about those types of things until I was presented with a mysterious box full of them. I was preparing to ask him about the trophies when he spoke.

“So, is sex more or less obligatory when staying in one’s childhood bedroom?”

“Sex is never obligatory, but everyone certainly expects it of us now, thanks to you.”

“Good. Then they will leave us alone until breakfast.”

Nothing was going to happen. There was a case on. I took my clothes off, draped them on the nightstand, got into bed, turned away from Sherlock, and scrunched down my overly fluffy pillow as best I could.

“So you’ve decided you’ll pass?”

I bolted upright. “It’s a case! I thought it was understood that—“

“It is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the facts. We haven’t a thing to go on until tomorrow morning. Which means...no case...yet. Though I’ll admit this location has no special draw for me, my bed-companion does. As usual.” Sherlock leaned forward and gave me a surprisingly gentle kiss. Not that he was generally assertive about this sort of thing. But it seemed particularly sweet and reticent.

“You are just distracting me from asking about your trophies,” I said.

He snickered. “Spelling, mostly. Long since deleted as useless information in a modern world. Possibly one in martial arts, or fencing, but that was primarily during my first semester at Oxbridge. Mummy wouldn’t have those. I did win a medal from the RCM for the Hugh Bean Violin Competition, when I was twelve…”

“I was in the children’s group competition for woodwind and brass when I was ten. You did have to be chosen for it. Not that the requirements were all that steep. Got a certificate and a medal. They said I demonstrated a great deal of emotional maturity in my performance. Still don’t know what that means.”

Sherlock kissed me again, far less tentative this time, and I pulled him down on top of me. It could stay gentle and soft like this, or it could turn into something closer to a Greco-Roman wrestling match. I didn’t care. I had this amazing man in my bed. A man I nearly lost many times over. And now, he was mine and I was his. 

I never thought he would have wanted marriage. It was practical, of course, but there were ways around those sorts of things. I knew Sherlock was a romantic, underneath it all. Truth be told, the first time I couldn’t sleep and he had decided to practice lullabies for no earthly reason except to calm my jangled nerves… I listened to him play...and I knew he was a romantic. I hoped I’d be lucky enough to see it one day without his having to chanel it through his devotion to solving a case, or his passion for practical scientific research. And now, here we are. I am so very, very lucky.

Touching him used to be about the challenge of making him lose that calm and collected exterior, carefully assembled to hide the swirling emotions within him. And then, it had somehow become about me losing my own tightly held sense of, if not composure, then at least control. We had been exposed and vulnerable to each other in so many ways now, that I sometimes thought there was nothing left to accomplish. And the truth was..there wasn’t. We were no longer accomplishing anything. We were no longer proving anything...to ourselves or to others. We were just reveling in the simple joy of having found each other. In being able to please each other. In being ourselves.

We kissed and touched and rubbed and licked and prodded and grasped and eventually fell asleep wrapped round eachother and it was all a fucking miracle.

The next morning, I insisted Sherlock brush his hair and teeth and make some sort of attempt to look presentable, though he said it was part of the family routine to do such things after breakfast, not before. And also that brushing anything...especially teeth.. before breakfast was idiotic. I suggested he look in the mirror before agreeing to that plan. 

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I seem a bit… disheveled?” 

“That’s putting it mildly.”

He grinned and grabbed his dressing gown.

I think I get it now. The innuendo at dinner. The tousled hair at breakfast. It’s hard for me to believe, sometimes. That he is proud of us. Proud to be marrying me. He is damn near smug about it sometimes. I wish I could see myself as that much of a catch, but he is right about one thing. We’re meant for each other. 

I kissed him, then playfully ruffled his hair a bit more as he closed his eyes and sighed.

“Okay then. So are you going to imply that we will be showering together as well?”

“If I can figure out a way to successfully bring it into conversation, yes.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t made comments about restricting my diet so you could—“ He turned back toward me with extreme interest. “Nevermind.” I was playing around, but he wasn’t above implying he was conducting some sort of blowjob experiment. “And by nevermind I mean please, for the love of God, don’t go there. I will die of mortification before you even get a chance to marry me.”

“Not worth the risk, then.”

“You can keep the post-sex hair, but if you want a proper snog at the breakfast table, you will need to brush your teeth.”

He headed to the bathroom.


	4. Sherlock’s Businesses, and Henrietta’s

I kissed him inside the doorway, just before entering the kitchen. 

I had only intended a quick, demonstrative peck, but Sherlock let out a tiny moan and I found myself leaning in far more than I had intended. Everyone had tactfully found something else to focus on for the moment, but they all had absolutely seen it and probably heard it as well. Not that they should be surprised. But it still seemed newish to them. Even if it was...pretty wonderful.

“Good morning,” said Mummy.

“And a beautiful morning it is,” Sherlock chimed in. “A case... awaits!” He spread out his arm with dramatic flair and gestured toward half the countryside.

Daddy came out from the kitchen, carrying a heaping plate of waffles adorned with powdered sugar. A blackberry compote and freshly-whipped butter were already on the table. Sherlock reached for a waffle.

“Wait for the tongs!” scolded Mummy. “And a bit of etiquette at my dear friend’s home, if you please.”

“We aren’t at your dear friend’s home yet,” said Sherlock.

“Practice makes perfect,” said Mummy. “Country squire manners.”

Sherlock laughed and Mycroft gave a prolonged eye roll. Apparently the odd admonition was nothing new to either of them. I’d ask later.

Daddy Holmes sure knew how to make a good waffle, and I had had just a bit too much breakfast for my comfort. That was, of course, when Sherlock rose, his eyes tracking impatiently around the table and called out, “Well? What are we waiting for?”

Rebecca’s home was not far. It was another smallish country estate, though it hadn’t been inherited. She had purchased it recently, she explained to all of us as we sat by her fireplace sipping cocoa. She had been wanting a quiet place to do her paintings on weekends, away from the noise of London,and once she and her husband had retired they moved down full-time. 

It made me think about what it would be like to retire to a remote village and just...write. Sherlock couldn’t stand rural life, though. Give him millions of human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Swarms of humanity, where anything could happen, and he was in his element. 

Sherlock took a few sips of his cocoa, complimenting it in an effort to win over his host, and set it back down on the table.

“Do you know what kitchen Henrietta Petersen used when she was not working for you?”

Rebecca pulled up a listing in her mobile. “I have no idea where she does her baking, as such, but, I do have her home address…” 

“What about past references? Maybe she is using the kitchen at a former workplace.”

“You're sure it isn't just her own kitchen?” I asked.

Sherlock glanced quickly at the mobile and shook his head. “She lives in a shared house. Not conducive to baking.”

“Oh, yes I did hear her complain about the way they were splitting the heating bill once! How could you tell?”

“It is my business to know what other people don’t know. I have studied every part of London. That area consists of either very expensive new developments which she could never afford or large houses divided into boarding house-style rooms with a shared kitchen. She couldn't cook there. Her housemates would eat the cakes.”

“I know she often went to get supplies from Alma Breckinridge when she was making something special for me. I guess she might know more? The place is near Covent Garden.”

Sherlock nodded. He was confident. I was worried. 

What if we couldn't find the thief first? The thief would surely find us. Break in and ransack the place to find that damn stone. All this fuss over a shiny rock. 

I’d need to go back and get my gun. There was no way I was leaving the house unguarded and as much as I‘d like to think we could just ring up Lestrade and he’d send someone right on over, it didn't seem likely in reality. Sherlock must have read my expression, because he told Rebecca he had to check on a few things first, information he had filed away at home, and would be right back, then turned to me and said, “Let’s go.”

I could read every unspoken word on Sherlock’s face. _You don’t have to do this, you know. We could wait for the police. But I’m not going to say it because I know you have to do this._

And the truth is, I do. And I don’t even know why every fibre of my being says ‘Not on my watch.” If someone was going to break into the house, I was going to make damn sure they stayed put until the police arrived.

When the cab arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock sighed and headed upstairs, muttering aloud about how he would have just waited for me, but needed a change of clothing. He suggested I get one too.

“Sherlock, should you grab a file? You know, just for appearance’s sake?”

He laughed. “Everyone knows why we are here, with the exception of Mummy’s friend, as I believe all of us thought it best not to alarm her. Hardly need to grab a random file.” I grabbed my Browning from the nightstand. “And you really should teach me to be a better shot— as back up. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. The next time we disarm someone, I think I’ll keep the weapon.” 

I frowned. There was something very wrong about using someone else’s gun. With my service weapon, I knew exactly what it’s seen. Who it’s shot. It seems a bit crazy, thinking of an _object_ like that, but if we just took a gun off a criminal… Well, it just felt off. 

“It’s not as if you aren’t a criminal yourself just for owning one,” he said, reading me perfectly. “And a weapon’s conscience, as it were, depends entirely on who is holding it.”

“I know,” I said. “Not everything makes sense. Logically, I mean.”

“Well, grab an overnight bag and let's hurry back. I hope Mummy has convinced her friend to let us stay overnight. I’ve no idea what excuse she’d come up with, but I’m certain she will have found something.”

When we returned, Rebecca had already set up two rooms for us — Mummy, Daddy and Mycroft in one and Sherlock and me in the other. I was glad she had put us together, but I also knew I wouldn’t be in the room for long. Once everyone had gone to bed, I would be making my way downstairs and would stand guard in the kitchen...where the thief would head first. Or possibly outside, if I could manage to get out and back in and still have the house secured.

After heading to our rooms it was obvious neither of us would be sleeping any time soon, so I went back downstairs and sat at the kitchen table. Sherlock paced the floor in front of me.

“They either have a partner or work at the hotel. A partner seems unlikely. If there was one, they would have hidden the gem in a less precarious place or handed it off to their partner to do so. Which makes it far more likely it is one person with access to the hotel room safe. So...a hotel staff member. A hotel staff member who also bakes. Kitchen staff? No. No access to the room, unless it was room service. But she would have been there for the delivery, so we are back to the two jobs being unrelated. A maid would work. Or… or maintenance. Perhaps, knowing which room the Countess would use, they tampered in advance with the HVAC system? Then the Countess would most certainly exit the freezing cold room until it was both repaired and comfortable. Ample time to steal the ring. A full tool kit would arouse no suspicion. Maids would be subject to far greater scrutiny for theft, given their lower social status, just or no.”

“We need to interview the Countess. Ask about anything unusual in the room.”

Sherlock gestured to the morning paper and scowled. “She has returned to her rather secluded estate. The advertisement lists a local contact who is handling any inquiries regarding the reward. Speaking to her will be difficult, if not impossible. We will run out of time. Our best bet is to move backward from the cake, not forward from the jewelry safe. We need to go to the bakery and look for a worker who may have had access to the hotel as well.”

“And we don’t know where she did her baking.”

“But we do know her supplier. That’s where we must begin.”


	5. Bet You Recognize This

“A baker by the name of Henrietta Peterson recommended you. I am considering opening a new location, one that is primarily for my desserts. I will need staples, of course, and occasionally rarer items.”

“Ah yes!” Alma Breckinridge extended her hand and Sherlock shook it. “Henrietta has been ordering from us for some time now. We serve as a one-stop centralised warehouse with enough variety for any discriminating chef. We have a larder of our most commonly used items always on hand. Madagascar vanilla, the finest local honey, seven types of flours...”

Sherlock glanced around the shop in what would appear to be an idle fashion to those who didn’t know him well. “How many varieties of honey do you keep on hand?”

“We only keep one on hand, as most of our customers prefer an unrefined, local product. It is a raw honey, from our Sussex supplier.”

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. “Are you certain this is the supplier she referred to, Sherlock? I am positive her honeycake uses the Ling Heather variety— from Exmoor National Park, Devon.”

I still didn’t know why Mycroft insisted upon joining us. And knew even less why we had deigned to let him. Sherlock had muttered something about the spirit of the season. I could only assume it was some sideways attempt on both their parts at making Mummy happy. And it worked wonderfully. You’d think she had never had a better present in her life.

“We do have a deluxe service. For an additional fee, we will special order any item. Henrietta was not subscribed to that service, however. Most of our customers find our in-house items of sufficiently high quality. The cakes were made with our readily available Sussex honey, sir.” 

“It is logical to supply honey from a source closer to London, Mycroft. To ship it all the way from Devon is pointless when there are so many fine local keepers. After all this time, you still refuse to believe I am right, and that floral extracts can fool the palate. This is precisely why my tea-infused goose was so successful.”

“Well, it simply cannot be true in this case. Heather from the moorlands has a strong flavour. You can taste those distinctive notes, as well as an almost caramel-like undertone. But in addition, and more to my point, it is a far darker amber colour and the characteristic crunchy texture is present.”

“The honey is sourced from the Paynes family,” said Breckinridge. “Raw Sussex Honey from hives along the South Downs. Mixed wild flowers. They have been running their business in the heart of the Sussex countryside since 1922, with hives in Southdown National Park, Ashdown Forest, and across into Surrey and Kent.”

“Sussex honey it is, then,” said Sherlock, turning once more toward his brother. “So sweet a thing to cause such discord... look at us, arguing, all for the sake of grams of crystalised glucose and fructose!”

Mycroft glared at Sherlock and then spun around to face the clerk with a frightening intensity I had seen only a very few times during all the years I've known him. “You most likely are only claiming so because though Sussex honey is far from rare it still commands a high price. It is not as unique in its flavour profile, and one could substitute it with a far more _local_ source indeed. Perhaps even... the Tesco down the block. Good day.” He gave a quick nod and began to walk out of the shop.

Breckinridge was stunned into silence for a moment, clearly not used to such an insult, but sprung back quickly. “Wait! Wait! I can prove it!” She ran out from behind the counter. “I have our invoices!”

Mycroft froze in his tracks, facing away from the counter toward the door. I saw him smile. 

Breckinridge spoke as she sprinted toward the back office, “We would never dream of using anything but ethically-sourced, unfiltered products from England’s own beekeepers! Did you know the world’s biggest importer of honey is China? Their honey isn’t even honey at all! It’s been heated and watered down so much, and they’ve removed all the pollen. It’s horrifying!” She returned carrying two spirals. “To avoid trade regulations, China even ships its so-called honey to other countries, then switches the shipping drums, the documents, the labels, all to indicate a new country of origin. _That_ is what you’d receive at the food shops.”

Mycroft laughed. “Honey...laundering.”

I knew Mycroft was well aware of anything concerning international commerce, but he was doing his best to seem amused by the very concept.

“Indian honey is already banned,” she continued. “It’s unsafe due to contamination with antibiotics, heavy metal and of course it also has that total lack of pollen. You lose out on the enzymes, antioxidants and anti-allergenic benefits. We don’t want our honey messed with. Only the very best products for our warehouse, sirs!” She flipped through the pages in one of the spirals. “We ship it that very day, so it is always at its freshest! _And,_ we have negotiated special pricing with local beekeepers. Our volume insures high quality at a low cost.”

Sherlock looked skeptical.

“Right here...see?” She pointed at a log book entry.

Sherlock turned away in feigned disinterest.

“No! _Look!_ This was our most recent honey shipment. It says right here, Paynes Honey Co, SD...for South Downs.”

Sherlock dutifully examined the records. 

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. “Those could be as fraudulent as China’s.” Breckinridge took a deep breath and schooled herself not to respond to the accusation. “ _But_ , if I am... wrong... about its origin, it is only due to the fact that bees travel long distances in their pursuit of nectar, and there must be heather within range of these particular Sussex hives.”

Sherlock smiled politely, “Thank you, Ms Breckinridge. I will make a list of what ingredients I am likely to need and will be in touch shortly.”

We left the shop at a brisk pace, with Mycroft trailing behind us. Once we were a few yards off, Sherlock and I stopped under a lamp-post to wait, and he broke out in laughter which somehow managed to seem hearty, even though he hadn’t made any actual sound. “Mrs Maggie Oakshott, 117 Brixton Road,” he said once Mycroft was in earshot, without looking directly at his brother. “Well done.”

“That should make up for my botching the Melas case due to that premature newspaper advertisment.”

“Hardly.”


	6. At Mrs Oakshott’s

Mrs Oakshott ran a community kitchen where several chefs shared space; it threw suspicion on any number of people.

Sherlock turned to both of us before we rounded the corner. “The honey was delivered on Wednesday, so we must determine who had been sharing the kitchen with Henrietta from that point on.” He looked at the doorhandle and frowned. “I doubt the proprietor keeps accurate records.” Sherlock pulled out a cheap black wallet with one of Lestrade’s stolen IDs in the plastic viewing window, holding it up as he knocked.

Mrs Oakshott opened the door and gasped. Of course we could come in and look around. She glanced back at the shop before inviting us in, then opened the door wide. Sherlock gestured for Mycroft and me to go in first.

Once inside, Sherlock walked straight to the fridge. I wasn’t sure what he could get from it, but at least Mrs Oakshott was spared his look of utter disdain. Meanwhile, Mycroft asked her for a list of employees and others who were frequently using the kitchen. “Oh, let’s see. I have a record of that sort of thing… somewhere… Maybe it’s in the drawer with the thermometer calibration logs. Which we check at the beginning of each shift, per regulation.” Mrs Oakshott headed in the other direction. 

After only a few minutes of searching, Sherlock held up a pudding. “Who made this?” The dessert had Thursday's date scrawled on the side in black marker.

“Sorry, yes?” said Mrs Oakshott as she rushed back from the office… without any paperwork.

“Who made this?” repeated Sherlock, his voice overly smooth and even to hide his annoyance.

She stared at the container. “I’m not really sure, but… All the smaller portions are probably John Horner’s. He’s… well…”

“He’s what?” I asked. 

“Well, I don’t know if I…”

“If you didn’t intend to say something negative about him, the moment to have refrained from doing so has already passed. What is it? Got his culinary degree at Pentonville?”

I scowled at Sherlock, but Mrs Oakshott’s face reddened. “He was just released a few months ago. Took his training and decided to start up a little food cart.”

A tall woman was organizing liquor bottles along the back wall. She put down a case of Gray Goose, turned, and spoke to us. “Yeah, never did trust that man. Always a bit too quiet if you ask me. But, I still don’t get why you’re here. Someone steal something from the register? I mean, if something is missing, it’d make sense if Horner went and done it.”

“Jane! He did his time! We should treat him just like anyone else!” Mrs Oakshott talked a good game, but her expression showed she was trying hard not to think that whatever had inspired this unexpected visit, Horner had something to do with it.

Jane looked over at Mycroft with a touch of remorse. “Just being honest. He gives me the creeps. But the thing is, we do have a count each night— Mrs O and me both— and we don’t keep much cash on hand to begin with. Stuff gets paid for by the chefs direct, then shipped to us, and then I put it all away and clean a bit. Mrs O gets paid for the space by cheque. So there ain't much to take.”

Mycroft smiled. It was a bit...sharky. Not that Mycroft’s smile wasn’t always a bit sharky, but...this was sharkier. “Oh. No. Nothing like that. Just a… follow up.”

Mrs Oakshott nodded gravely. Jane might not have understood, but Mrs Oakshott clearly believed we were there for some sort of health inspection. Maybe even regarding a complaint. No wonder she was being so cooperative about us searching the premises without ever telling her why. Sherlock and his doorhandles…

“Jane, can you pick up some extra soap for the loo? We are getting low.” She turned back toward me. “Wouldn’t want to run low on that. We take our standards of cleanliness very seriously here.” She crossed over to Jane and gave her a quick look of concern. I wondered whether or not to eat any of that cake back at Rebecca’s place.

“Quite,” said Mycroft, opening a cabinet to examine how the dishes were stored with a critical eye. 

“Sure, Mrs O. I’ll bring it round when I come in tomorrow afternoon.” She stopped and then added, “I know how important that is.” 

“Still working that other job, then? You work so much! You sure you don’t want some time off? Be with your family for the holidays? And of course I wouldn’t want you to work too many hours...”

“I’m fine. It’s just part time, and my family isn't local anyway.” She looked at Mycroft and then at me. “I’m Jane Ryder. I’ve been working here a few years now. Let me know if I can help you with anything.” She returned to her boxes. “Well, got to get back to work.”

Sherlock appeared to rearrange some more items in the refrigerator and then turned to me and nodded. “Let’s go.”

I thanked Mrs Oakshott and Jane Ryder for their cooperation, said we’d be in touch if necessary, and we left.


	7. A Locked Hallway

“And where to next on our wild goose chase? The Hotel Cosmopolitan?” asked Mycroft. He was surprisingly chipper.

“Remind me. Why are you still here?”

“I can always return to Mummy and Daddy. I’m certain we will find _something_ to discuss as we while away the hours.”

“Fine. Join us, then.” Sherlock paused a moment before adding, “And yes. The hotel.”

The Hotel Cosmopolitan— no one would dare call it the Cosmo— was a venerable old establishment. I had no idea what a room in a place like that actually cost, and it felt like I was losing a fifty just by walking into the lobby. We were greeted promptly, although discreetly screened promptly might have been a more accurate description. Sherlock spoke to the uniformed employee briefly, but found that he had paled slightly and turned away abruptly as Mycroft Holmes came into view. 

Well, this was a place to meet dignitaries, for sure. Maybe that’s why Mycroft was so insistent, in his own way, that he come along. Not that anyone needed a reminder that he was a posh git. 

The concierge strode over to meet us. Sherlock simply requested unlimited access to the Countess’s former floor. I was quite surprised he even asked. Normally, Sherlock would just find some way of his own to get up there and wander around to his heart’s content. I guess he wanted to impress Mycroft as well; he’d made a point of walking ahead so Mycroft wouldn’t see the flashed fake ID, and he acted as if it were his own credentials which opened doors, adjusting his coat collar as we all headed to the lift. It wasn’t until we were exiting at the upper floor of the hotel that it occurred to me this might just have been all for my benefit. The last time we went to a forbidden penthouse was at Magnussen's workplace. Not exactly a pleasant memory for anyone involved. 

In any case, the concierge escorted us to the restricted upper levels, and once the lift doors opened, Sherlock took off down the hallway, then ran back again before the concierge, walking solemnly, reached the deluxe suite. Sherlock bolted right past him again, this time down the other end of the hallway, and was back before the man opened the lock.

“Are these banquet rooms catered exclusively by hotel staff?” he asked. I was surprised he wasn’t even the tiniest bit out of breath from all the sprinting.

“Ballroom A is used exclusively by hotel guests. There are additional ballrooms on the main floor, towards the rear, which are occasionally hired out for corporate events. Whilst corporations tend to bring in their own caterers and support staff, the upper levels are manned only by our own.”

“Is it also designated for the private use of guests solely on this floor?”

“For those on any of the upper floors; those are restricted to our guests who are accustomed to a different level of service.” It almost sounded seedy, the way he paused and distinguished the upper echelon from the riff raff. Almost. “This floor consists of the ballroom at the end of the hallway and the deluxe suite to the left. There are no additional rooms. Both are well-insulated, with a storage area betwixt the two to prevent any transfer of noise, but we also want to ensure no one wanders out of any events to harass our guests—some of them are rather well-known—so any event is continually monitored to prevent any unruly ballroom attendees from roaming the hallways. I can assure you, anyone present within the confines of the ballroom remains so for the duration of the event. We have three security guards stationed there, and they have been with us for a very,” he paused, “very long time.” 

“I can confirm that,” said Mycroft. “There are seats just inside the door.”

“Toilets?” I asked.

“In the back of the ballroom.”

Sherlock nodded and passed on the offer to inspect the ballroom in favour of heading straight to the suite. He pulled back a lacy curtain to reveal the heating element, then dropped to his knees and crawled beneath the window. He rose and headed to the kitchen next, eyeing every electrical appliance, holding something which he had extracted from the tile grout alongside the stove between his finger and thumb and rubbing them gently. Then he moved on to the WC. 

It was clear to me he was systematically examining everything that could have possibly gone wrong and required a skilled repairman. His frown grew deeper as he scrutinized each new section of the suite. Finally, he stood up, leaned backward slightly as if subtly adjusting his back, and shook his head. “No recent repairs. And room service is extremely unlikely.”

“We have no record of the Countess asking for any form of assist—“

“There would be no formal record,” Sherlock snapped.

“Perhaps I should leave you to examine the room,” the concierge said with an air of defeat, and crossed to the door. “I will wait in front of the lift.” He pulled it open with more effort than would have seemed necessary, and shut it behind him. Sherlock ran to the doorway, pulled out his lens, and examined the locking mechanism carefully. “And there we are!” He gestured toward the lock. I went to look.

“It...didn’t shut.”

“Exactly. So. Anyone walking by could get in if it happened to stick at that particular moment. The locking mechanism is worn here,” he pointed to the top of the latch, “and here. Enough to allow the door to be opened from the outside with a strong push. The question now is who could have been in the hallway and have noticed?”

“Anyone working for the hotel,” said Mycroft.

“Maids come up just before check in or just after check out, unless summoned. I doubt the Countess would call for assistance when the room was cleaned and well-stocked in advance of her arrival. It was to have been her third night here. She likely had the sheets and towels changed regularly, but a turndown service would not have been done in the morning. The gem was reported missing shortly after breakfast, which her maid cooked in this very kitchen. There are traces of fines herbes on the edge of the stove.”

I turned to face Sherlock. “Do you think the maid might have taken it? Waited for a moment away from the home so she could blame someone who wasn’t on staff?”

“Unlikely. With so many places to stash it right here, why leave the room and hide it in a bakery? The maid resided on The Countess’s estate. Why should she have any connection with a chef in Covent Garden? Anyone she’d know well enough to hand off such a prize to would be someone she sees frequently, not only on an annual London excursion.”

“Well, clearly someone got past a security guard. It isn’t exactly difficult. When I was last here, they were older men. A pretty lady would have no trouble drawing one away for a rendezvous, real or manufactured, and escaping his notice temporarily to steal the jewel.”

“Not to steal a jewel few even knew existed, let alone knew would be unguarded in a hotel room at that precise moment. The Countess doesn’t advertise her visits far enough in advance for someone to have booked a party for that date. It was a spontaneous crime.”

I nodded. “So, someone with an excuse to be up here, who...knew some rich person would be in these rooms and decided to see what they could nick?”

Sherlock glanced quickly at the concierge. “If we go on the assumption that you are correct— and believe me, I am not implying in any way that you are— then someone, who was neither an employee nor a party attendee, managed to find their way into the lift with the premeditated goal of entering the suite. Was anyone famous staying here just before the Countess arrived? A well known actor or musician? Someone with a rumour mill...so fans might be aware of where they were staying?”

“A dignitary. I can provide the name and the country they represented if you give me a moment.”

“Unnecessary,” said Mycroft.

I wasn’t sure if he already knew who it was or if he simply agreed that no one would ever sneak into a hotel in hopes of catching a glimpse of some nameless diplomat. 

“Well, there is nothing more to see here.” Sherlock turned back toward the lift. He paused in front of it. “Would someone who had somehow found their way up need assistance in returning to the lobby?” 

“Yes. The lift button will not depress unless the code key is pushed against the box. It is the same going down as it is going up.” He demonstrated this as he pressed the lobby button.

“And the stairwells? Could they go downstairs, but not upstairs?”

“If they could, that means they would need three accomplices already in the building to hold the doors open, so they could get up the top three floors that way,” I added. It seemed ridiculous, three criminals already in place and pacing back and forth on the stairs between floors so they could let the last one travel all the way up. Mycroft and Sherlock both smiled at me, though their smiles were entirely different.

The concierge shook his head. “Locked doors.”

Sherlock slowed his speech as if explaining his question to a total idiot. And I’m sure he thought he was doing just that. “If there were a fire...and the lifts were not in use... how would your guests... leave the burning building... alive?”

“There is an electromagnet on the doorframe and an armature plate on the door. So long as power is applied, the device’s magnet keeps the door locked. In the event of an emergency, the central fire panel deactivates the magnet, allowing the door to be opened. The power was never turned off. We would have known if that had occurred.”

“It also would require preplaning, or at least some research,” I said. “Not very spur of the moment. Unless it was a hotel worker. Or possibility a firefighter.” I knew it sounded stupid the moment I said it, but it wasn’t as if I had any other ideas. I was beginning to think I should keep my mouth shut.

Sherlock closed his eyes, then snapped them open and glared at his brother as if he was about to accuse him of something. “I need to think,” he said. “Let’s go back.”

I was still determined to make sense of it all, God help me. “So to get up there, they would have to have had an escort, and the front desk staff had no knowledge of anyone with a key except for the Countess and her staff. The staff could have stolen the ring at any point so it made no sense to do it here. And all the partygoers never left the party.”

“I assume someone coordinating the party had a key?” Sherlock asked.

“We issue one to whoever had booked the room, yes.”

“Anyone could have let a non-partygoer onto the lift with them, thinking they belonged at the event. I do believe courtesy would suggest holding the elevator and not asking if they have any right to be on that floor.” 

Sherlock looked weary. The concierge looked as if he was about to say something and then thought better of it.

“Our thief could have hopped in and tagged along, then?” I asked.

“Right to that floor, yes.”

“And then veered to the left instead of joining them at the party?” Mycroft added.

“Yeah, I gotta admit, that part seems unlikely.”

Sherlock stood in front of the doors and stared at them as if willing them to open faster. “When we have ruled out the impossible….” he said as the doors parted and he began a brisk walk into the lobby.

“Yeah, I know, I know.” I followed. That was fast becoming one of Sherlock’s favourite phrases. I had a list of them. Some of them had made it onto the blog and officers would quote them back at me. It was annoying. “But once they went into that room, there was no getting out of it. Like Toyland. I hope it was as fun as everyone expected. I’d hate to be stuck in there for hours and hours with nothing to do and no escape. What was the party all about anyway?”

“I’ll check our records,” the concierge said.

We headed back to the desk, and he opened a large logbook and flipped to the most recent page. “It was a wedding event. The reception.”

“And the guards on duty?”

“I’ll call them down.”

“Was there a wedding coordinator?”

“Yes, I can provide you with her business card. She was the one who rented the room.”


	8. Oh no! I forgot the goose reference! Goose!

Sherlock informed the concierge that he would be back tomorrow morning to question the guards, took the card, and we all left the hotel. 

The cab ride was horrible. 

No one said a single word, but with two Holmeses, any conversation might have made it even worse. I knew Sherlock would need to think this through before formally questioning anyone, and I knew that would mean even more silence. It wasn’t that I loved to talk— it just felt like everyone understood the situation but me. A little recap in the service of their figuring the next step to take would have at least given me some time to catch up. But they both just stared out opposite windows. The cabbie even honoured the silence by turning off the news broadcast.

When we arrived at Rebecca’s home, Sherlock went straight on up to our room without so much as a word to anyone. Rebecca looked puzzled, but Mummy smiled. “He’s going to go and think,” she said. “One less for supper, I’m afraid.”

“Should I send something up?”

“Oh no, he wouldn’t even notice if you did. He once shut himself up in his room for four days straight. We heard a faint rustling every once in awhile, so I knew he was drinking water from the bathroom sink at the very least. On the first day, Myc had informed us it was unlikely that Sherlock would come out for meals, so we slipped some flat food beneath the door.” 

“You… wait… both of you?” Mycroft gave me an offended look, but then, surprisingly, actually nodded. I scanned back and forth between them. “You slipped food...under a door?” They were certainly a strange enough family that I had no doubt they would do something like that. The question was, how?

“It was an older house with wooden floors. There wasn’t much space, but it was enough to slide some naan, a slice of pizza if we removed the crust. Mykie made him a quesadilla. He didn’t eat any of it though, so...we all assumed he’d come out when he was good and ready. And he did.”

“You’d be pleased to know he’s much more efficient now. I haven’t seen him in a catatonic state for longer than about twenty hours.” 

Mycroft smiled. “Out of idle curiosity, when was that?” 

“Toward the end of the whole Adler thing.”

“Ah.” 

‘Ah’. ‘Ah’, he sure was lost in thought a lot during those days, or ‘Ah’, I was watching him for a solid 20 hours back then? No, I _didn’t_ just throw 24 hours out there as a casual estimate. It was 20 hours. And I watched him for all 20 of them, too. I had a book ready to plop on my lap when he stirred to act like I had fallen asleep reading hours and hours ago. I never did know if it fooled him or not, but I doubt it. 

We had dinner, with what I’m sure would have been a _fascinating_ conversation about pottery again, which I think somehow turned into Navajo wedding vases before segueing to some distant relative of Rebecca’s who had gone to school with Mycroft and was getting married and house-hunting. Of course I was still thinking about the case the entire time. It had to be someone on the hotel staff. They’d need to get up and back down unnoticed. Maybe a random stranger could manage it one way, but both? Too great a coincidence. I excused myself early. 

Sherlock was still in his room when I came up, but was reading rather than in his patented thinking pose. I felt a bit... well... betrayed? Here he was, simply avoiding small talk for the last God knows how many hours.

“You could have at least fake-texted me that you needed something, you know. Spared me having to pretend I had any interest in someone or other’s wedding.”

He winked. “You said you enjoyed the Holiday Experience.”

Bastard. “What are you reading, anyway? You never just...read to read.”

“John. And here I thought you knew me well! I am an omnivorous reader, with a strangely retentive memory for small details. If you haven’t seen me reading much at home, it is because I have exhausted the supply on our bookshelves. In any case, this happens to be Winwood Reade’s Martyrdom of Man. Written in 1872, famously, no favourable review of it ever appeared in print until 1906. Remarkably prescient. Reade ignored what he referred to as, ‘the advice and wishes of several literary friends and my publisher’ and declared himself an atheist in print. The book does tend to be repetitive, and is full of twisted Victorian prejudice disguised as patriotism, but it’s ultimately a fascinating timepiece and a study in intellectual bravery with keen insights. For example, Reade proclaims one person an insoluble puzzle, but people… _people_ are a mathematical certainty. I highly recommend it—one of the most remarkable books ever penned.” At that, he popped the book shut with both hands and returned it to the side table.

I probably looked a bit stunned, because Sherlock laughed. “A teacher gave it to me when I was in my early teens. Said it was the sort of book custommade for someone who thought he knew everything about everything. He was right. I admit to being somewhat surprised to have found a copy here. And, I assume it was Douglas who was getting married, and Mummy was discussing what to get him.”

“As well as his move to Croyden, yes.”

“Was it a tribal wedding vase? That would be a good excuse for her to delve into more of her pottery research.”

“Yeah, a wedding vase.”

“She should have stayed longer in Santa Fe.”

“Well, if she had, you wouldn’t have had this case.”

Sherlock frowned. “The locked hallway mystery.”

“I think the guards must be lying. I mean, how can someone get up there and back without being noticed? But you’re reading instead of thinking, so I am going to _deduce_ that you have made a breakthrough on this case.”

“Only in the sense that I know exactly what to ask our guards. As much as I hate to admit it, Mycroft has a point. Remember the last time a pretty face made her way onto a crime scene— and ended up finding the hidden floorboard compartment?”

“And fortunately for us, messed up the carpet.” Sherlock pouted. “Not that we wouldn’t have figured it out some other way…”

“Well, the only argument against this being a repeat is, there were _three_ guards on duty. _One_ is easy enough to distract. _Two_ like-minded ‘buddies’ who egg each other on to slack off is also possible, though unlikely if their dedication to service is to be believed. But _three_ reduces the chances considerably. Even if that dedication was a façade, one of them would likely enjoy spoiling the fun of the other two with some form of reprimand.”

“So if they weren’t covering up some big mistake they made, then how—“

“Oh, they made a big mistake. They were just unaware they had made one. And, therefore, have no reason to cover it up. So we are looking… not for something extraordinary, but for something rather commonplace, but perhaps just a touch... off.”

“What about the wedding coordinator?”

“Out of town. And not answering her mobile.” I raised my eyebrows. “But her website shows a booking in Wales this weekend, so we may slide that over to the Not Suspicious category. We could crash the wedding to verify it— or even to check out her work in person, as her website was impressive and we still have no planner under contract— but, I think catching the guards in the morning would be a better use of our time.” His grin was adorable, and I decided a kiss was in order. It was a quick peck—if it was anything more I’d risk admonishment for diverting blood from his brain—but he deepened it on his own. 

“Once more, I find I have nothing additional to weigh until I receive more data. Our well-respected security staff saw something they considered normal that wasn’t quite, and I can only await their account. Making my brain... expendable... at the moment.” He kissed me again, then again on my jawline, the junction of my neck and shoulder. I paused a moment. The thought of having sex was a good one. The thought of having sex during a case—twice now— and at Sherlock’s mother’s friend’s house to boot seemed like something to not exactly discourage, but, to check in on at least. “Is this some ‘other people’s houses’ kink you’re developing...or are you feeling like you need to—“ I was searching for words and not finding any.

“Adjust things before the wedding?” He sat down on the bed. “I know I don’t need to, if that’s what you’re wondering. Am I doing it subconsciously? Perhaps. There is a tendency, with exposure, for systems to move toward homeostasis.”

“I —“

“I know. Let me see where I end up. There has already been a shift and there may yet be another. But it is not to ensure I keep you. It is because I have you.” He kissed me again before I could tell him how fucking beautiful that was. 

We were naked in bed in no time. I couldn’t even say who took whose shirt off first, or how we got to where we were wrapped round each other, trying to thrust forward without ever moving backward to suffer the briefest loss of contact, even for a millisecond. When we finally fell away, sweaty and sticky, and giggling about how to best handle the mess, Sherlock whispered under his breath that maybe being in a different location didn’t hurt. Something about being able to challenge previous restrictions. I wish I knew exactly what it was he said, but I was already lost to a wave of exhaustion. Between the chemical rush and having been up all night securing the— fuck. They were no safer tonight than they were last night, were they? I should head down to the kitchen. I pulled myself up and glanced toward my clothing, in a heap on the floor. 

“Unnecessary. I left a plate with remnants of cake, a cheap blue ring that looked nothing like the Countess’s, a hideous plastic baby, and a few other trinkets on the kitchen table. If our thief peers in, all the better. Clearly, this was the wrong cake.”

I dropped my head back on his chest.

“And yes, I am brilliant and irresistible and you love me. Now go to sleep, John. We will likely confront our criminal tomorrow if all goes well and we could both use some rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flat food idea comes from the Douglas Coupland novel, Microserfs. A program developer would not leave the room until his work was done and would only eat American cheese shoved under the door.


	9. The One That Inspired Someone To Eat Pineapple Pizza

I was used to waking up early, but when I finally felt some unknown compulsion to actually open my eyes instead of roll over and try for some more sleep I was startled to find a fully-dressed Sherlock hovering over the bed. 

He kept his voice low, but it was still intense and eager. “I waited for you, now hurry! We need to get downstairs and search the area in front of the kitchen window for prints before anyone else wakes!”

We crept down to the kitchen, and he held me back with a gesture as he walked through the door that led from the kitchen to garden. Then he waved me on.

“Here...see for yourself!” There were footprints in the damp ground directly under the window. “So what do you make of those?”

“Smallish prints. Seems like a woman’s, maybe?”

“Notice anything about the tread?”

They were regular loafers, but the sole was unusually rugged. “Bit deep for the narrowish shape of the shoe.” 

“Non-slip. For warehouses and ...kitchens. Our thief is a woman. Practical nature. Average height. Sub-par criminal.”

“I follow about half of your justification.”

He smiled and appeared to change the subject, but I knew better; he liked showing off far too much. “How has the weather been since we arrived?”

“Cold as hell.”

“But damp?”

“No. Not really. I’m surprised the tracks even took.” 

“Look to the right of the prints. Just to the side of the window. You can touch the ground if you’d like.” I knelt down and did. It was bone dry. “Now tell me what kind of a potential burglar steps in damp soil— courtesy of myself and this watering can— leaving a perfect imprint, when they could have moved less than two feet to the right, still had an excellent view of the kitchen, and left hardly a trace? A stupid one. She had all the time in the world last night to find an ideal viewing spot. But now we know she saw the cake and the incorrect ring, and won't be breaking in to retrieve her stolen goods. Breakfast?”

I assumed the actual consumption of food applied to only me if we were off to the hotel this morning, and nodded. 

Mycroft was oddly quiet, picking at what was actually a rather good crepe. He looked at Sherlock and me pretty regularly, but as if he were confident we hadn’t noticed him doing it. Sherlock finally flat out stared at him, and he stared right back. Some sort of unspoken conversation then. God, I hated those. Whatever it was about, Sherlock must have won, because after we all had finished eating, Mycroft excused himself and headed upstairs. Good. I wanted this to be just Sherlock and me, working together. I couldn’t help but think I could have pulled off that whole honey argument; okay, with a little bit of advance warning...but I could have. Besides, today was about straight up questioning. What did the security guards actually see?

As turned out, they hadn’t seen much. 

George was a tall man with a dark complexion and even thinner than Sherlock, which took some doing. He adjusted his glasses a bit at the beginning of the conversation, which, thanks to my recent study of body language, indicated his having seen something of interest. Odds were pretty good the something of interest was Sherlock. I thought back to Mycroft’s assertion that a pretty girl would lure the guards away. Yeah, right. I smiled, almost snickered, but Sherlock placed his hand gently on my thigh, which distracted both the man and myself. He glanced downward, momentarily guilty, but that was the only thing he was guilty of. It was clear in a moment that he had been alert and attentive on the night in question. 

He leaned forward as he spoke, and gave a very accurate description of the set-up. The only people both entering and exiting the room were hotel staff and the wedding planner. He didn’t see anyone cleaning at all, just servers. They were bringing up a steady supply of canapés and champagne and at the end of the evening, a giant strawberry tree…a chocolate-dipped berry on each spun-sugar branch. Sherlock asked if there has been a baker bringing up a wedding cake, and George said there was no cake. Strictly a post-wedding affair, mostly cocktails and lots of finger food. They had a dj, who didn’t appear to have been from the hotel, but he was taking requests and hadn’t moved all night long. Truly nothing unusual had happened.

The second guard, an older woman named Marla who looked tired and rather pale, said much the same. No one left the room, even if, in her humble opinion, a few of the younger guests did seem a bit restless and probably should have. They settled down once they had some kid-friendly snacks brought up, and then started up some karaoke and had a pizza party in the back corner while the adults got steadily blitzed. Typical event. 

Sherlock held off the interview with the third guard wait while he paced. He asked to see the prep kitchens and the wine storage facilities first. Maybe he wanted to follow the path from the kitchen up to the ballroom and look for anything unusual? Kitchen looked pretty standard to me. He asked for a catering menu and a wine list. The house manager brought them over and explained that there were no orders taken, and there was a standard array of small plated items carted back and forth throughout the evening. How often? Generally on the hour. It would slow down as the evening wore on. By that point the food would be sparse, but the number of drinks would increase.

Sherlock asked what the children would have been drinking, since wine was out of the question. The house manager stared blankly. The hotel had other restaurants with children’s fare, but not this particular kitchen, as it was geared to corporate events. The bartender might make virgin cocktails? The same applied to food service— a kid could eat foie gras, sure, but it was a far cry from kid’s food. 

Sherlock asked to speak with a member of the serving staff that had worked that night. One was working a second job. The other would be in in about a half hour for another party. The third had the night off, but he could call her in? Sherlock shook his head, and asked to be notified when the server scheduled for tonight came in, then headed back to the ballroom. 

I turned to him as we walked back to the room the concierge had set aside for us to interview staff. “Do you think the one with the second job might be one of the chefs at Mrs Oakshott’s?”

“I don’t think we will need to speak with the hotel staff any further. I have an idea who it was and how they got in. I will confirm it when we speak with,” he looked down at the list of names they provided us, “Theodore Marsden.”

The third guard was an older man, though still striking with his gray hair and intense blue eyes and a prim manner. It was like looking at Sherlock through a time machine. I might have stared a bit. But when it came to what he had to say, he just as blasé as the rest. Sherlock looked at his future self, smiled, and asked him how long he had been working in that position. It had been 38 years. Yes, he had seen a lot of people come and go. No, no one new on the serving staff. He knew the wedding caterer too, seen her many times before. The only new face was the assistant she had brought. He’d never seen her before. And she seemed quite underdressed. Staff should have been in black pants and a white shirt, vest, tie, or at least a rough equivalent of that. Certainly not casual wear, even if she was just bringing up food for the kids and not actually serving. It had stood out as unprofessional. When she came in along with the wedding coordinator, both of them holding sixpacks of Coca Cola and both wearing jeans, he had just shook his head. Younger people...everything was becoming so informal. 

“Well then, John, who is our thief?”

I shrugged. “The staff seems fairly trustworthy. The servers came and went, but were carrying trays the whole time, and coordinating as a group. I doubt one would have just sat a tray down in the hallway and left to ransack the room next door.”

“Outside of the staff?”

“Just the wedding planner and her assistant, right?”

“Interesting the concierge hadn’t mentioned the assistant. Nor the dj.”

“The dj was spinning tunes all night. I buy that.”

“But not from the start. I believe the wedding planner brought in the dj after the party was already underway. Which is why our concierge was unaware of his presence. And of the assistant’s as well. Though it would be unusual for an assistant to suddenly appear toward the end of an event. Normally they are there during the set up and then leave.”

This part made some degree of sense. “So the wedding coordinator brought her in for the sake of the restless children, and then she left. They were both carrying drinks, and the assistant was probably carrying the pizza boxes. Things they didn’t have at the hotel.”

Sherlock’s phone rang. He glared at it distastefully, but answered anyway. “No, no trouble. Have you worked with this hotel frequently? I see. And your assistant? No? The young woman who helped bring up the food for the children.” There was a pause while the person on the other end of the phone, I assumed it was the wedding coordinator, clarified. “Ah, yes. Thank you.”

“No assistant?”

“No assistant. She ordered food the children would enjoy from the nearest serviceable location...the pizza parlor across the street. She met the delivery person in the lobby and helped her carry up the drinks.”

“Which was how she got to the ballroom floor without the concierge being aware she was even there. And then the coordinator probably let her down again.”

“If she was innocent, yes. She could have easily slipped away without anyone noticing for quite some time. She was established as having had a reason to be there, so no one would pay her undue attention if she joined them in the lift several minutes later for one of the trips back down to replenish the food or drinks. Though we should not rule out the wedding coordinator herself.” He out on his gloves and scarf and headed for the revolving door. “Time for lunch, John.”

We walked across the street to the pizza place, but Sherlock went right past it and kept up a brisk pace until we were at a park bench a good three blocks down, where we sat.

“I thought we were going to question people in the restaurant.”

“No need. As we were walking towards it, I caught a glimpse of a woman through the window placing some boxes into a warmer. It was our friend, Jane Ryder.”


	10. In Which a Goose Is Not Cooked...

“Ms Ryder?”

Jane Ryder acted as if she didn't hear us and continued to stock shelves. If I were her, I’d be buying time, figuring out what we might know to decide to come back here.

“Ms Ryder, we know you hid the Countess’s ring in one of Henrietta’s cakes. Are you at all curious as to where it went?”

Jane looked to be in shock. “How did you...how could you possibly—“

“Simply following the path the ring took. From the Countess’s hotel room to a holiday table. Did you know anyone that worked at the hotel?”

“Nobody.”

Sherlock chuckled. “And you just happened to find yourself in the Countess’s bedroom with a valuable ring within your grasp. How did you know it would be there? I assure you, I will find out. If you would be willing to save me the trouble, I would appreciate it—”

“I was there cause I delivered food to the hotel,” she blurted. “I work at the pizza place across the street. A fancy hotel like that, they’d never order pizza, but there was a big party going on. I think it was a wedding rehearsal. They ordered some for the kids there, I guess, dause there was already plenty of amazing looking food. I put down three cheese pizzas and left. But I was already on the top floor. Where the super deluxe rooms were. I just wanted to see what they looked like is all, those rooms where you need permission just to get the elevator to go all the way up there, to the top. The lady in the fancy hat let me go up.”

“And you peeked in a room?”

“The door was open and…. Have you ever just… just saw something sitting there, and...you knew you could take it. I mean. If you were that sort of person. That you could just take it. Maybe even wear it for a bit and put it back. Not because you wanted to have it or anything. Just...to see if you could actually do it?”

I shook my head.

“I bet not. I bet people don’t wonder ‘bout that sort of thing ‘less they got something wrong with ‘em, I guess. I mean, maybe some people, they _think_ about it. If they’d make a good criminal— be able to get away with it and all. But they don’t really _do_ it. But the door was open and I don’t know if they just left, or were gone a while, and the hallway was empty. It was real quiet. So I just went in, to, see what it looked like on the inside. I knew I’d never get the chance again.”

Sherlock folded his hands under his chin and nodded.

“I thought I had a plan that would beat the best detective out there.” I saw Sherlock grin. “I took it with me to work. Here, that is. I had to put it somewhere. The cakes were still hot, fresh out of the oven and cooling on the racks. So pressed it into the side of one. I knew Henrietta would be letting me take home any she still had on hand; she always made plenty extra and it wasn’t like they would keep to sell later, so anyone who helped in the kitchen got to eat ‘em. ‘Fulfil the ultimate destiny of a King Cake,’ she always said. I placed a mark on the edge, nothin’ anyone would really notice ‘less they went looking for it. Then, when they was cooled off, I put that one in the freezer— to keep it away from the others. When all the orders was accounted for and the payments was received and the books balanced right down to a goose egg, I went to grab it.”

“But the freezer was empty,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah! Nothing in there at all! I asked where the frozen one was and she said she made a fresh one just for me that afternoon with the extra ingredients she had just got in.” She looked at all of us. “I told ‘er if it was all the same, I wanted the frozen one, and she said suit yourself. She gave me one that was in the deep freeze. I followed her in there. There was only the one, so I made a big mistake. I thought it was the only one that was frozen. Turned out she froze six of them! She was delivering them like that to her clients and had made most of ‘em long before I had come over to help on Wednesday. I never did check for the mark cause she had already boxed it up.”

Sherlock nodded again.

“When I got home— well, you can guess the rest of it. And I hurried back to the kitchen and checked everywhere for more. All gone. I didn’t know what ta do.” She looked around nervously. “I asked a lot of questions on who she sold the cakes to. There was 26 of them to start, but some was fresh. Didn’t care about those. I just had to track down the frozen ones. Tried to make it sound like I was gonna maybe sell some specialty stuff to them. I mean, she knows I don’t bake, but, I acted like I sold other craft things. Like candles. I don’t think she believed it. I don’t lie all that good.” 

“And yet you had no problem casting suspicion upon an innocent man!” I hadn’t seen Sherlock this angry in a long while.

“I didn’t mean anything by it! I just thought if you was looking for someone, I’d send your eyes away from me for a bit. But I knew you wouldn’t find a thing on Mr Horner. He’s been livin’ a clean life ever since he got out, I wouldn’ta said anything bad on him if I thought anyone would find real dirt!”

I frowned at her. She looked so young— far too young to throw her life away. Sherlock didn’t seem so taken aback. “Assuming you recovered the ring, what was your next step?”

“I don’t even know what I’d do with it, to be honest. Couldn’t sell it. Where? How? Couldn’t wear the thing anywhere. I saw the reward and thought maybe I could say I found it? So I thought I’d try to give it back. But even that seemed like I’d just have people wonder how I found it, and, like I said, I’m not such a good liar.”

“Or you are an exceedingly good one.” Sherlock scrutinized her for a few minutes solid. She looked ready to faint. “Never had much of an education, dropped out of school to join the workforce. Tried to support an ungrateful mother, but eventually ran away to start a new life with your boyfriend. That didn’t last. He left you. You went back...to your... grandmother this time. She took you in. And now…”

“And she’d kick me out too, if she knew I’d gone and done this. She raised me good, but I was a lost cause long before then. I knew I wasn’t good for much, but I thought maybe I was clever enough to make a go at that. But I’m not. No surprise there. Just. Useless.” I thought for a moment she might cry, beg, break down, say she never went wrong before and never would again. Swear it on a Bible. But she only stared into space. She sighed. “And now, I’m going to break her heart. The only person who ever saw anything good in me. And I ruined it.”

Sherlock stood up, crossed the room, and threw open the door. “Get out!” he said.

“What?” 

“No more words. Get out, before I change my mind. Go!” 

There was a rush, a series of thuds down the stairs, the bang of a door, and I thought I could even make out the crisp rattle of running footsteps in the light snow.

I barely managed to put my thoughts together. “You did that for me, didn’t you?”

“Why would I do it for you?” He paced a bit before settling back into his chair opposite the fire. “I’m not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger, it would be one thing, but there never was any real reason to suspect him. And he was nowhere near that hotel, even if there was.”

“And you are willing to turn your back on a felony, all because of the incompetence of Scotland Yard. Now that’s more like it. And here I thought it was the Spirit of Christmas. Season of forgiveness. Saving a soul.”

“Well it’s true enough she’s too frightened to ever make this kind of opportunistic error in judgment again. Send her to jail now, and you make her a jail-bird for life. I’m not out to punish anyone; the solution is its own reward.”

“And the 10,000 pounds?”

“Ah, yes. That is… also… a reward. I suppose Rebecca and Henrietta might split that? Rebecca found it, but...it wasn’t her cake, after all. And Henrietta could use the money for her own bakery, perhaps? Well, no concern of mine.”

We sat in silence some more, as I watched the firelight cast shadows on his face.

“I wonder if, maybe you took a personal interest in her reasoning.”

“Oh, I have no doubt I’d’ve made a first rate criminal. I’ve never felt the need to prove it to myself. Besides, I’ve broken into enough buildings, for a good cause, to satisfy any idle curiosity.”

“Not what I meant.” I almost didn’t say it, but it was something we rarely discussed. And when it presented itself… “You didn’t ruin it, you know.”

He frowned. “Well, not permanently, at least. But. I have ruined many, many things.”

I took a deep breath. “Well. Let’s just say you weren’t alone in that. Ruining things. Nearly ruining things. Far from the best path, ours, but we are here now, at least.”

He nodded quietly.

“I’m not sure if I would have done that, you know. Can’t say I’m particularly good at forgiving. Keeping a grudge seems to be part and parcel with being a Watson. But I’m glad you didn’t have her arrested. I’m...well, I’m grateful for...undeserved opportunities for reformation.”

“She didn’t plead for forgiveness. She accepted that she did the wrong thing. And would have accepted whatever consequence came along with the action. This is what made it so easy to provide some sort of absolution.”

“She didn’t anticipate it.”

“No, she didn’t. But she also didn’t deserve to think she was somehow too far gone to make a change. And more importantly, she shouldn’t believe she was destined to fail.” He cleared his throat. “She has someone who believes in her. She deserves the chance to keep that someone around.”

The silence fell again, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About her grandmother.

“Is it right, do you think?”

“Hmmm?”

“To have us keep her and Jane together through lies? If she would have thrown her out if she had known the truth...do we have the right to—“

“John. She took her in. Do you believe she would want to cast her out?”

“Well, no...but—“

“And who was most likely to cause that to happen...her grandmother, or Jane herself?”

I hadn’t thought of that. It was Jane’s own self destruction that was the most powerful force at play, she would ensure that she would be rejected. Punished. Living the life she thought she deserved. 

“And now, with no charges pressed, even though a crime was committed, she has no obligation to share anything at all. She can use this to correct her sails. Herself. A gift, of sorts.”

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Merry Christmas, John. I’m sure a fine, festive meal awaits us...shall we?”

“Excellent idea.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for A Story That is Almost, But Not Quite, Entirely Unlike Blue Carbuncle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739135) by [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/pseuds/bluebellofbakerstreet)




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